The Adventures of a Special Correspondent eBook

“Wait a bit, Mr. Bombarnac. Imagine a colossal
workshop, immense buildings for the mounting and adjusting
of the pieces, a steam engine of fifteen hundred horse-power,
ventilators making six hundred revolutions a minute,
boilers consuming a hundred tons of coals a day, a
chimney stack four hundred and fifty feet high, vast
outhouses for the storage of our goods, which we send
to the five parts of the world, a general manager,
two sub-managers, four secretaries, eight under-secretaries,
a staff of five hundred clerks and nine hundred workmen,
a whole regiment of travelers like your servant, working
in Europe, Asia, Africa, America, Australasia, in
short, a turnover exceeding annually one hundred million
dollars! And all that, Mr. Bombarnac, for making
millions of—­yes, I said millions—­”

At this moment the train commenced to slow under the
action of its automatic brakes, and he stopped.

“Elisabethpol! Elisabethpol!” shout
the guard and the porters on the station.

Our conversation is interrupted. I lower the
window on my side, and open the door, being desirous
of stretching my legs.

Ephrinell did not get out.

Here was I striding along the platform of a very poorly
lighted station. A dozen travelers had already
left the train. Five or six Georgians were crowding
on the steps of the compartments. Ten minutes
at Elisabethpol; the time-table allowed us no more.

As soon as the bell begins to ring I return to our
carriage, and when I have shut the door I notice that
my place is taken. Yes! Facing the American,
a lady has installed herself with that Anglo-Saxon
coolness which is as unlimited as the infinite.
Is she young? Is she old? Is she pretty?
Is she plain? The obscurity does not allow me
to judge. In any case, my French gallantry prevents
me from claiming my corner, and I sit down beside
this person who makes no attempt at apology.

Ephrinell seems to be asleep, and that stops my knowing
what it is that Strong, Bulbul & Co., of New York,
manufacture by the million.

The train has started. We have left Elisabethpol
behind. What have I seen of this charming town
of twenty thousand inhabitants, built on the Gandja-tchai,
a tributary of the Koura, which I had specially worked
up before my arrival? Nothing of its brick houses
hidden under verdure, nothing of its curious ruins,
nothing of its superb mosque built at the beginning
of the eighteenth century. Of its admirable plane
trees, so sought after by crows and blackbirds, and
which maintain a supportable temperature during the
excessive heats of summer, I had scarcely seen the
higher branches with the moon shining on them.
And on the banks of the stream which bears its silvery
murmuring waters along the principal street, I had
only seen a few houses in little gardens, like small
crenelated fortresses. All that remained in my
memory would be an indecisive outline, seized in flight
from between the steam puffs of our engine. And
why are these houses always in a state of defence?
Because Elisabethpol is a fortified town exposed to
the frequent attacks of the Lesghians of Chirvan,
and these mountaineers, according to the best-informed
historians, are directly descended from Attila’s
hordes.